Only one song this week… just the same song over and over and over. And for real. Not a song that is *representative* of my week, but a song that *consumed* my week. The Gummy Bear Song. I swallowed it whole.

Like a bag of haribo that ‘went down the wrong way’.

And the worst part was that it was my idea to listen to the song in the first place. And also that I can’t stand those sticky little guys.

The week started off cheerfully enough, with the catchy tune. (But then again the bubonic plague was also ‘catchy’, non?)

Things are just that – things. It’s just stuff. Some of it may be very *nice* stuff, very *expensive* stuff, very *sentimental* stuff, but it’s still just stuff… and that’s why we have insurance, to replace the stuff.

Of course there are things that I really love, the furniture my late father made for me. The trinkets, drawings, cards etc that WonderChild has produced over the years. Various reminders of my life in the past.

But those are just that – things from the past, not things from the future.

Full disclosure, I’ve been on a minimalist mission to get down to 100 possessions for quite some time. This is hard, oh so very hard to do.

I mean really, what are the parameters? My car. Does it count if I put it in my husband’s name? But then he’ll have 3 cars and somehow that’s cheating. Dishes – I only get one bowl because that’s more useful than a plate? What about when guests come over? BYODishware? And my eyeglasses? Feels like that shouldn’t count as an item because I need them. .. and underwear? 7 pairs? 1 pair to wash every night? (And why is underwear in a pair anyway when it’s only one?)

So maybe asking the neighbours to turn up the stereo while we do the Hustle around the burning house would be a good thing after all. A fresh start. A kind of make over.

Like the pioneers moving west. Or immigrants leaving a war-torn homeland to move here for freedom, peace and stability. Or gee am I ever lucky that this is my biggest problem today – a hypothetical fire and whether I need 3, 5 or 7 pairs of underwear.

I cannot take credit for this word – my lovely child came up with this years ago after a brutal day at school. At the age of 9. (You may remember that school is not a great place for children at either end of the bell curve of everything. Or for parents of kids like that. Trust me.) My child learned early on that while some people can be absolutely lovely, full of integrity and kindness, there are many, many who are not. Kids and adults alike. My no-longer-9-years-old kid still has an absolute laser-like ability to read people and an even more incredible ability to blow off those who fall outside the lines of fair, kind and with integrity – all while being courteous. Let’s just say a child that is more mature than I am.

But enough about My Brilliant Kid.

Shidiot.
Shitty + Idiot.
Someone that treats others like shit.

Not surprising is that she didn’t learn the first word here at home, she learned it at school from the kid with “anger management issues” that was allowed to swear and name call because, well, the principal never would give her (or us as parents) a straight answer. The kid was behaved that way for the simple reason that he was allowed to.

So shidiot it is. Know anyone like that? Then take a lesson from a kid, blow them off with courtesy and enjoy the wonders of the rest of your day.

Or, if appropriate, stand up to the shidiot (in the politest way possible) and make a difference in someone’s life.

Someone killed herself on the weekend, left behind two young girls and a doctor husband. She was the only one on the parent association that would occasionally talk to me, despite my daily efforts to show interest and enthusiasm in their children and their lives. Despite all appearances of a perfect life of private schools and private jets, her private life wasn’t so perfect after all.

What pressures, what pain, what loneliness that woman must have endured before reaching that point.

So I decided to sit out today’s daily post. At this moment, for me, life is to short to pretend that ick isn’t what it is, which is just plain old ick. Maybe next time this assignment comes up I’ll turn that ick into a brave-faced writing exercise.

But not today.

The last time the woman that killed herself spoke to me, she told me she *loved* my coat, playfully pulling me closer by the arm to pat the furry collar. “I’m addicted to leather” she told me. “This is so gorgeous and the fur is spectacular!”

I enthusiastically told her the reason *I* loved my coat was because it was actually NOT leather and the fur was fake. Really good looking fake leather and even more good looking fake fur. Funny thing, for one brief moment I thought, oh, maybe these women that are acting like they are teenagers and ostracizing me are actually normal people! I really *did* want to fit in with those people. She’ll love the fact that no animals were harmed in making this coat! And then we can all just relax and be friends!

Not so.

The poor perfect woman yanked her hand away from my fake fur so fast and so hard that she actually bumped into the wall behind her. Holy smokes. End of conversation.

So what is real and what isn’t? Is a perfect life real or is a “perfect” life not real?

Received a dvd of the family home movies. Old ones, starting in the late 50’s. Everyone wearing suits and skinny ties at house parties. Women with dark lipstick and short curled bobs, high heels and broaches. Gorgeous times.

Many of the people I did not recognize as they were my parents friends before I was born. One person in particular I just by chance recognized was my mother. She was absolutely, stunningly gorgeous. It could have been Elizabeth Taylor in her heyday smiling and waving in that clunky old film. Breathtakingly gorgeous, laughing and charming everyone around her. Dangly earrings, perfect lipstick. An elegant party in the beautiful giant century home they used to own, before I was born.

I don’t ever recall her having fun or laughing around us. Nor do I recall such beauty and charm. I do recall her hate and anger and her vicious words. That’s what I free associate about home. An overweight, miserable woman who hated everyone, bought friends from church with $50 bills and ‘divorced’ her kids because, well, actually I never did hear why she was divorcing us. She heard about it on some afternoon tv show and that was that.

No hard feelings, that was when Dad died 6 or 7 years ago. In fact I so seldom think of her that maybe that’s another reason I almost didn’t recognize her.

This morning’s free association makes me wonder what she would think of now, when presented with the word ‘Home’.

I try very hard to remain optimistic and upbeat at all times. And I *do* mean try because some days I just don’t feel like it. It being the minor irritations that cloud the big picture.

I don’t usually give up on the big picture stuff, in fact I can’t recall the last time I did. (Although I’m sure I have because no one’s life is that perfect.)

I will tell you, that despite the Zen notion of before enlightenment chop wood, carry water and after enlightenment chop wood, carry water, on this particular day I am sick of simply cleaning up.

When I was alone it was one plate, one fork, one cup. Then with two it was my stuff and your stuff, meaning less tidiness. Then alone came the third and rest assured, the smallest one makes the biggest mess… and can’t clean it all up alone.

So I throw the towel in… into the washer along with everything and anything else because at this point, who cares? I throw the dishes in…. into the sink because the dishwashing machine hasn’t worked properly in about 3 years and is now a storage facility for glass jars, potato chips, fish food. When I reported to the 2nd one that the dishwasher wasn’t working, the response was that *I* didn’t know how to work it properly. Operator error. Despite the fact that I was able to operate the dishwasher without any problem for 10 years… ready to throw the towel in on that one too.

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]]>https://trymorethanonce.wordpress.com/2015/01/25/throwing-the-towel-into-the-washing-machine/feed/0best4673happily every after VS all was right in the world.https://trymorethanonce.wordpress.com/2015/01/23/happily-every-after-vs-all-was-right-in-the-world/
https://trymorethanonce.wordpress.com/2015/01/23/happily-every-after-vs-all-was-right-in-the-world/#respondFri, 23 Jan 2015 13:55:52 +0000http://trymorethanonce.wordpress.com/?p=84Continue reading →]]>Easy Fix … Write a post about any topic you wish, but make sure it ends with “And all was right in the world.”

“Happily Ever After” does not equal “All was right in the world”. Apples and oranges. Pizza and Hot dogs.

I want an apple and you want an orange. We have apples and you don’t get what you want, or your side of the story isn’t happily ever after because you didn’t get what you wanted.

Yes, I hear some of you gasping (and we know who you are) but what about all of the terrible things going on in the world today. Of course those things are wrong, wrong because it isn’t what we want. You wanted an orange but you didn’t get one, remember?

Yes, I see some of you pursing your lips, thin-lipping me because no one child starving to death, no woman raped then murdered, no person ravaged with cancer is living happily ever after. Of course not. No one wants that for themselves, few want that for another.

So what are you doing about those things? Are you helping to make things all right in the world? Or are living happily ever after, because, after all, those things aren’t happening to you?

What do we want? What do you want? Make things right in the world first, then we live happily ever after.

What one thing are you going to do to get what you want? What one thing are you doing today to live happily ever after? What one little thing will you do to make sure that all is right in the world?

Send me a comment and let me know what little thing you will do. We’ll have a mini fireside chat, like yesterday’s daily post.

The first half hour of my day. No rituals, no musts, just a very big preference to be Alone. Yes, Alone with a capital A.

I remember someone mentioning that the first person seen in the day always had an effect on the day, good or bad. Not that I’m going to let one interaction set me up for success or failure for 24 hours, but I’d rather just spend time alone with myself.

How many people are arguing with themselves? How many people are so harsh and judgmental of themselves, critical in a way that they wouldn’t be of someone else they love? I know the type, maybe am one of them from time to time.

Being alone gives me the chance to set myself up for the day, to remember that I am the boss of myself and my day *throughout* the day. If I feel that control slipping away I can bring it right back because after all, it is *my* day.

Whether I’m newsing (yes, a new word that means checking the news online), stretching, running, planning, adding or finishing something, I like to be by myself.

What happens if someone else here is awake with me? Let’s go out for a coffee and talk about it.

Found more than I had expected when I went through a bunch of photos in a box in the basement. I was shocked to find just how attractive I was. I was shocked to see how much fun I had, that I had friends and that I was able to recall a vast number of people who liked me, even loved me.

Even the strongest of us will forget who you really are when you hear nothing but how really weak you are.

Found the giant surprise that I am still am really attractive (even if I don’t look exactly like this anymore), and interesting (well only up to a point on that one – I’d rather hear you talk and learn all I can. Which might not make me interesting but it sure gives me lots of things to think about and learn) and fun.

I took a photo of one of the photos because I wanted to share that very idea of rediscovery with someone that I have known through all of the being, the forgetting and now the joyful remembering. Someone not connected with the photo, but connected with me.

Another surprise was two years ago who just by chance I found out that my accomplice in this photo had tragically passed away, leaving behind a young family. We hadn’t spoken in years, as there was no need to. I vaguely remember the last time we spoke, also by chance, giving the opportunity to put to rest the ugly parts of an ugly breakup so many years ago.